


i'm gone before i get there

by fab_ia



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Codependency, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Second Person, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, denial of humanity, depersonalisation, just... unhealthy everything, kepler has trauma but yes he is still a bastard man, unhealthy workplace relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:41:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23992462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_ia/pseuds/fab_ia
Summary: "here is a recipe for disaster. one, one, two, to taste. serve and enjoy."or, warren kepler and the realisations that he lives under the control of another.
Relationships: Daniel Jacobi & Warren Kepler & Alana Maxwell, Marcus Cutter/Warren Kepler
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	i'm gone before i get there

here is a recipe for disaster.

one sip of wine so red it almost brings up bile in a visceral reaction of disgust, filling your throat with nostalgia made of thick, saccharine smoke, lingering in the back of your mouth and coating your tongue with it, painted thick with ink spelling out psalms and praise for some higher power - a man, a celestial being, _anything_. 

one part gunpowder, painting your fingers black and the smell of fireworks sinking into your skin, hot metal against your calloused skin. death clasps your hands in his own cold ones, fingers against your bruised knuckles and whispering your name, _warren_ , dry lips against the back of your hands as he promises you glory and power and everything that you could ever want.

two parts bruised knees, some lingering below the skin from the ground-down carpet of your childhood bedroom and the rest from the floor of a penthouse apartment, the only memory of these places being that pressure beneath your skin, through your pants, the black behind your eyes and the words running through your mind.

wing it, from here on out - no measurements, nothing predefined, the end result is different every time but they all end up in disaster, in carnage, in the bright white of a hospital bed, the contrast of sheets against skin. feather-soft, white down, sometimes they are stained with vibrant red that dries into something far more earthy that flakes off beneath your fingers, collects beneath your nails as you pick at it., sheets crumpling beneath your touch around the body there on the mattress below them. 

you’re tired of hospitals, the bitter sting of chemicals in your nose, bleach leaving you almost dizzy as the monitors become metronomes, ticking out a regular tempo, regulated and methodic and measured. you breathe in, you breathe out.

your reign over the department is in the shadow of someone larger-than-life, constantly weighing on you as you live in the shade, the strings pulled by the man behind the velvet curtains as the hooks dig further into your flesh. you are a marionette, you follow the movements dictated by another. nothing is your own, you are no longer your own person - a shell, a doll, joints replaced by balls and the porcelain coating of your body cracking as you attempt to rebel and are reminded in no uncertain terms what you are. you are no longer a who.

you are a machine, and machines have no feelings or wants or desires, only the most basic needs to keep your gears working and cogs spinning. oil your joints with whiskey and fake another smile as the amber burns your throat and leaves you lightheaded and spiralling. keep up the mask. don’t let the feelings through the cracks, keep them in, cage them in your chest and lock them away. give the key to a stranger that you kiss in the dark corner of a bar just to feel alive for a few moments before he ends the night with his throat slit and blood tacky on the tile of his shower.

cutter kisses you and you feel nothing. you barely even blink. he pouts, squints at you for a moment as he holds your head up, neck craning towards him.

“good job,” he says, and it crushes you and lifts you up.

“thank you, sir,” you reply.

  
  


trinity, one-two-three, hypotenuse-opposite-adjacent. they say a triangle is the most stable shape but the three of you are far from it, structure thrown aside for trauma that seeps into every interaction and dictates the darting eyes and strict posture of the two. they are younger than you and much less innocent than you expect them to be, jacobi’s criminal record only blank because of _favours_ \- he tells you, lips quirked up at one side as his eyes light up when he describes the thrill of knowing he’s got away with something, the weight in his pockets leaving him unbalanced and riding the high. the word rings in your ears and you feel half-sick, nauseous at the thought of his father paying cops off and joking with them, leading his son out with a tight grip on his wrist, conditional and reliant on _obedience_. maxwell snorts, elbows him and gets beer on the cuff of her sweater for her trouble, tells you how she was a _good_ girl, she never did any wrong in her life.

“not that i couldn’t pin on my brother, anyway,” with a wicked grin, eyes back to the quick, bright ones you’d grown used to already, a far cry from the wide, doe-like ones she’d adopted for a moment.

they’re fucking perfect and they’re fucked up and so _imperfect_ that you’re starting to think you’d die without them. people would call that codependency, probably, and you know they’re probably _right_ but there’s something in your body, blood, running through your veins, and it tells you that you need them, whispers to you that you’ll rot where you stand and become dust between your sheets as soon as they’re gone. some nights are an empty bed. some nights the three of you are pressed against each other, curled up and a tangle of limbs, maxwell pulling jacobi as close to her chest as she possibly can as though he’ll disappear when she lets go, jacobi’s face pressed against the bare skin exposed above the collar of your shirt as you lay awake and listen to their steady breathing, snoring, mumbling the dialogue of dreams.

you were a perfect machine, until them. 

hospital, again. bleach. clinical. clean. electric hum, the rhythm of a heart monitor, maxwell’s hair against the pillow as jacobi reads her the riot act and you lean against the wall with your arms folded and eyes closed. her blood dries on your hands. you’re glad she’s alive, your sloppy stitching keeping her blood flowing for enough time for her to get back here, for this.

the hourglass dribbles sand, and you push open the door to cutter’s office as you brace yourself for cutter’s words. for his disappointment. you are no longer his machine, and you don’t know if you’re going to be able to face him when the two of you know that he hates you, now, that you’ve let him down and left him with a _failure_.

“oh, warren,” he says, “warren, warren, warren. what _am_ i going to do with you, hm?”

serve and enjoy.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> on tumblr @sciencematter
> 
> title is from 'dissociation' by ricki cummings, found here https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/153207/dissociation


End file.
